#in a pit of depression

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Just your average male living space.

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[sheylin66]

Into the Pit AU!

This is 4 years after the 3 star ending.

[Spoilers ahead!] + (another drawing)

Oswald's family moved to a nearby town after Oz got his dad back from the ball pit. Oz recently got into highschool and his parents got decent jobs.

They still visit Jeff's Pizzeria every now and then! The place has improved a lot ever since Oz helped Jeff with the arcades and all.

But Oswald never revisited the ball pit room.. He still thinks about it to this day because of frequent nightmares. What happened to the creature? Did Jeff get rid of it? Does he even know?.. Did it escape or go away? Did it ever exist? 👀 What if the ball pit is gone now?

He'll find out soon.

[kingdomsaurushearts]

An entry I did for a SoRiKai zine. U3U

[pbeltarts]

listen. shh. i'm just. trying to figure out how to draw them.

dont question why thats the only thing i colored and came out decent

[sanji-screenshots]

full of love.png

[ohanny]

i need an au where all the pit babes have their own familiars that follow them around and kenta's is a little black cat that expresses all the emotions he himself can't.

kenta, standing stiff by the door: hello

kenta's familiar: happily running to wind himself around kim's ankles

babe: ... are we supposed to ignore that or -

kenta: yes

and then kenta alone in his room, squishing his kitty's cheekies all "why do you have to be such a whore, oh my god you're so embarrassing" and the kitty's all

"who you calling a whore, i'm literally part of your soul"

[iliothermia]

Last year you shared a birthday wishlist do you have one this year 🦇

Sorry I didn't respond for a little bit, always get anxious abt my birthday list.. It's here. I mostly wanna make some stained glass this year and combine it with my suncatchers I already make, but we'll see! I don't expect anything. Thank you for asking anon, hope you're well

[gothamite-rambler]

Ominous voice on the phone: Seven days.

Tim: For what?

Ominous voice: Seven days.

Tim: In a week? Yes, that is how long a week is. Is that all you needed to call about, stranger?

Ominous voice: No. Seven days… to live.

Tim: And?

Ominous voice: You're going to die in seven days.

Tim: FINALLY!

Bruce: Life is not that bad. End the call.

Tim: We have the Lazarus pit and unlike Jason I can handle it. Ma'am, I'm assuming you are because you sound like a little girl, but do you promise?

Ominous voice: What?

Tim: Do you really promise that you'll be here in seven days to kill me? I need to prepare for that death. Is it still a flat screen that'll get me, or can I expect something more creative?

Bruce: Give me the phone.

Tim (placing a hand on Bruce's face): I can set up lights and snacks if you need that.

Ominous voice: You're… supposed to be scared.

Tim chuckled flatly.

Tim: If I died right now, I'd welcome it. I live in Gotham. A sunny day either means I won’t have to deal with something awful or that something truly terrible is around the corner. My adopted father? I spent my teenage years helping him with his mental health, and then my parents died soon after. I didn't kill myself when my father died because I thought I wasn’t worthy of death, and then said adopted father put me through a test that nearly pushed me over the edge.

Ominous voice: …

Tim: So, is there a time or anything?

Bruce (taking the phone): Um, can you pick someone else for this? My kids are, um, not the best with mental health.

Tim: We learn from the best!

Bruce: I said I was sorry about the test!

Tim: Three months later!

Bruce: Is that not enough?

Tim: I would have appreciated no test at all! I'm not suicidal I just need a reboot.

Bruce: Tim... I care about you and understand the sentiment, but no. Death and pit isn't the answer to mental health.

Ominous voice: Sorry to interrupt, but yeah, don’t worry about me coming after him. In fact, who are your other kids? I’d like to avoid them and hope they get the help they need.

Bruce: Okay, so the first one is my eldest son, Dick. He handles his depression well enough… but he'd welcome death as well.

[ghost-bxrd]

Prompt:

Calvin Rose finds a catatonic teenager roaming the streets and… well, the poor kid looks dead on his feet, and it’s raining cats and dogs, he can’t just leave him there.

And, it’s fine. He’s just passing through (can’t risk more with the Court still at large) and will be back on the road come morning. And he’ll sleep easier knowing he kept the kid from certain death.

So, really, how the hell did he end up with the very same kid riding shotgun and nagging him to turn up the radio to Phoebe Bridgers?

[creepyclothdoll]

Pit

I have a friend who lives in a tar pit. 

I love them. But if you hang out with them a lot, the tar gets on you and you can’t get it off for the longest time. It’s really easy to get stuck to them and fall into the pit if you’re not careful. But most people are. Most people avoid the pit entirely. That’s why my friend is lonely most of the time.

When I first met them, they were about waist-deep in the tar. You’d never know it, but under that black sticky mess was a pair of the most cutsey socks you ever saw. White fluffy pomeranians crocheted on. That’s what they said to me, anyway. All I could ever make out were the beady eyes of little black creatures clinging to their legs, slicked with viscous, heavy liquid.

They made some jokes about the tar pit, and we laughed. It was harder to pry them out than you’d think. It took all five of us, days of patience, and several contraptions. They sat down on the edge of the granite ledge overlooking the tar pit, their lower half covered in hot black ooze which stuck to the dirt and accumulated dead leaves and sand. 

They wrinkled their nose at this.

“How come this isn’t happening to you?” they said, looking at our blue jeans and dusty hiking boots, which were mostly clear of tar. 

“It is,” I said, showing them the tarry mess on my hands and elbows, coated with debris. 

“Only because you touched me,” they replied, staring at the dirt and tar on themselves with growing disgust.  “I think I would have died if you hadn’t come,” they said to me. When we started to leave, they started to cry. “You are abandoning me now? After saving me?” They asked. 

“Obviously we want you to come with us,” I said. 

“It’s because I’m made of tar,” they spat. 

We told them they were not made of tar. But nothing we said could convince them. We tried to scrape the tar off of them, but they only panicked when our hands came away blackened again. 

“We have to leave,” my other friends said to me after a long long time. “We can’t stay here forever, waiting for them to be ready. No one can survive here.”

They were right. The tar pit stank. The tar gurgled and sucked and emitted foul-smelling gasses. Nothing grew around here, and nothing could live long in this place. 

My friends left us. I was the only one who stayed.

“I will prove to you that the tar comes off,” I promised. “I will prove to you that you belong in the world.”

Every day, we took a little walk further and further from the tar pit. My friend saw things that delighted them. They heard birdsong. They tasted crabapples and raspberries and wild leeks. But sometimes, insects would get stuck to the tar on their legs, and would die from the effort of escaping. And my friend would believe they were horrible again. Every day, we scraped a little more of the tar away. But my friend would see new tar on their fingers and mine and believe the stain was only spreading.

When I needed to go home to sleep, to see my family, and eat something that didn’t taste like smoke and oil and petroleum, my friend would weep.

“I know you like them more than me,” they’d cry. “You only feel sorry for me. You’re tired of all this tar. I’m noxious, I’m poison.”

One day, when I came back to visit them, I didn’t see them at their usual resting place near the edge of the tar pit. I walked to the ledge and looked down, and there they were, ankle-deep in the tar again, among the animal bones and the boiling toxic fumes. 

This time, their excuse was that they’d left their favorite watch somewhere in the tar, and they wanted it back. Their arms were sticky up to their elbows, searching for it. I can’t remember if they found it or not. Not that it matters. 

They had a lot of excuses over the years. They’d scream for help and someone– sometimes me, sometimes other passing folks– would hear and come lift them out of the pit. And each time, there would be fresh, hot, sticky tar on their skin, and anything that touched them would stick to them and die there or come away stained. 

We tried soaps and creams and pumice stones. Sometimes, these things worked. But as the tar started to come off, so too would the dead mice and luna moths and spiders, the dead white flowers preserved in the black, the suffocated frogs and trampled baby snakes and those allegedly pretty crocheted socks and layers of skin. And it hurt. And it disgusted them. And then the next day I’d find them back in the tar pit again.

I visit them every now and then, of course. I bring them snacks and little things I think they’ll like. 

I’m not the only one. Once, I saw them pull another would-be-rescuer deep into the tar with them. He screamed and strained to get away from the tar pit, but my friend clung to him, desperate and grateful, dragging him deeper and deeper into the thick, viscous, stinking mass. He only barely escaped, spitting and crying and swearing to me that he’d never return to this place. 

“He abandoned me,” my friend despaired. “He said he wanted me, but he left. He acted like I was disgusting.”

“That wasn’t nice of him,” I said, passing them the bottle of sticky-sweet honey mead, their favorite.

“It’s because I’m awful,” they said, taking a drink and passing it back.

It’s because you tried to drown him, I thought. 

“I want you to come out of the tar pit,” I said. I say this every time. “Come out and try again.”

But a long time ago, they stopped trying. 

“This is my home,” they say. “I’m made of tar.”

They get angry at me when I tell them they are not made of tar. They are made of blood and flesh and that’s why they hurt so much. That’s why they can’t survive. 

You don’t notice it creeping up on you, but at some point, when you hang out near the tar pit, when you spend so much of your time trying to save the person inside, you become aware that all of your things are stained with tar. You go to kiss someone and your fingers stick in her hair, and you have the sudden and terrible sense that you’re becoming tangled in some terrible trap you can never escape and you flinch away so hard that you rip her hairs out. 

“I’m sorry,” you say. “It doesn’t come off. I feel horrible.”

“You’re not horrible,” she says. “It’s just the tar.”

But it feels like the tar is a part of me now. 

“I love you,” I say to the person in the tar pit.

“I’m going to die here,” they cry up at me. Nowadays, they’ve sunk in up to their neck. Their pretty pink shirt has long been submerged in the burning black tar. Their hair is a sheet of slick black rubbery ooze. Their lips are close to the surface. 

“Please come out,” I say.

“I can’t,” they reply. “I’m trapped.”

“Take my hand,” I say.

“I can’t,” they reply. “It’s too far away.”

“I’ll throw down a rope,” I say.

“No. It’s too hard to raise my arms from the tar now. The tar is too thick and heavy.”

“Why aren’t you calling for help?”

“I’ll just drown them. There’s no point.”

“We can get lots of people. We can bring machines.”

“There’s no point,” they say. “I’ll just stain them. They’ll all be cruel to me anyway. No one wants a tar monster ruining them with their touch, spreading tar everywhere they go. And I hate them all for that.”

“The tar comes off,” I shout. 

“You know it doesn’t.”

“You have to try,” I plead.

“I’m going to die here,” they say.

“Let me help you. Let anyone help you. Come drink the mead you like. Come eat the cakes you like. Come get a new pair of fluffy socks. But you have to do something to save yourself. Please. You have to try.”

“I’m going to die here,” they say.

I’m sitting on the ledge now. I’m watching their eyes as their face sinks closer to the surface of the tar. 

“I love you,” I say again.

“No one loves me,” the sea of tar responds. “I am poison. I am rot. I will suffocate you.”

“I do love you,” I lie to the tar.

“I ruin everything. I am hate.”

“I love you,” I lie again to the tar. 

“Why are you lying?” It gurgles and hisses and steams. “All you have for me is pity and resentment. Touch me and I will drown you.”

I am lying because I still see my friend’s eyes peeking over the black oily pit. I can still see the color they dyed their hair on top– pink, their favorite. I can still see the bunny hair clip they like. 

They’re still in there. 

My friend lives in the tar pit. 

Only the tar speaks now. 

It will not let go of them. They will not let go of it.

[beerose12]

cringe ask but does anyone remember that one ladynoir fic where ladybug tried pavlov dogging chat into not saying puns by kissing him but ended up training herself to kiss him everytime she heard him say a pun??

i remember reading it when i was like 13 and recently remembered it and i NEED to reread it for the nostalgia and comfort show of it all pls give it to me🙏🙏🙏

[mishoru]

Don't you think I look pretty curled up on this bathroom floor?

[alekasatics]

as a tender fag i'm a cute, safe & healing Astarion truther. also this was done fully to chappell roan's pink pony club, essential info.

[jjaysontodd]

The more I read Jason the more I’m starting to think he might have bpd.

[yorkshirekiwi]

I'm genuinely concerned about what's going to happen to my psyche when everyone moves on from Master of the Air and the fics stop rolling in.

[allastoredeer]

WELL, YA GURL FUCKED UP

My ipad is trash, icloud is now on my shit-list, and I think I'm gonna cry.

I just lost all of my files on Procreate. All of my artwork, brushes, WIPS, and the next four parts to my Undercover Angel AU.

Fuck my life